by C. M. Lind
Her eyes went from them to the person clapping. It was Jae; he was flanked by the two guards she recognized from their lunch before.
“Great,” Randolph mumbled.
“Well done!” said Jae with a final clap.
“Thank you, sir,” said Randolph.
Jae laughed. “You did fine, Randolph, but Soli was the real delight! She almost had you there at the end!”
Soli would have smiled had almost anyone else said that.
Randolph raised his brow at her. “Did she?”
It was just like the man to take away every little thing that she enjoyed. He couldn’t let anyone else have anything.
“I have come to tell you that we are to dine again today. It will be good for us to get away for a little bit.”
Randolph’s brow dropped. The joviality on his face turned to a bitter smile.
Soli thought about what a fuss Lilane had made before about her not feeling well, and she knew what she had to do. She cleared her throat. “I believe I may have pushed myself too far. Unfortunately, I am still not feeling well—worse actually.”
“You aren’t?” Randolph asked, his head jerking back.
“That is too bad, my dear.” Jae’s lips formed a tight frown—Soli didn’t think of it as disappointment but more of contempt. “I have thoroughly enjoyed the show, and I wished to show my appreciation for your talents.”
“Are you hot? Do you need to lie down?” Randolph grabbed his cup again, pushing it to her hands. “Here, you should be drinking water.”
She shook her head to Randolph. “I should be fine with rest. I am only worried given the rest of the household—and you, my lord. I do not wish to be the one who makes you ill when you are so close to your celebration.”
“Why were we fighting then?” reprimanded Randolph. “We must have made you worse.”
“Your caution is entirely warranted.” Jae graciously nodded his head. “Rest it shall be.” He turned his head to Randolph. “Please escort the mistress to her quarters. She is on bedrest until the Jubilee.”
Randolph nodded.
“You have eight days to be well, my dear. Use them well.” He turned his back on them, and the two unknown guards followed close on his heels.
“He’s right. Let’s get you inside. No more fighting for you.” He forced the cup of water into her hand. “I’ve seen what this does to people.”
She took it, but she did not drink. To do so would risk Randolph seeing her face, which currently had no elaborate braid hiding its disfigurement. “Randolph, stop,” she whispered. She was afraid that Jae was close enough to hear, and she couldn’t risk it.
“What?” Randolph whispered back, his eyes narrowed and brow scrunched. “This is serious, Soli.”
“The only thing that makes me ill,” said Soli, “is that man’s company.”
Randolph glanced to Jae. “What? But he’s so…” he let the thought linger.
“Intolerable? Disgusting? Repulsive?” Soli filled in the blanks.
“Not what I was personally thinking, sweetheart.” His eyes went back to Soli. “What happened?”
“Nothing really, but I don’t trust him enough to even be in the same room as him.”
“So,” he said, dragging the “o” out. “You’re fine?”
“Fine enough,” she said with a shrug. “But I can’t stand him anymore.”
His shoulders slumped slightly. “You know this means no more mornings together.”
Soli’s chin tilted down, breaking their eye contact, and she frowned. “I know, and I’m sorry.” She thought herself clever about using the excuse, but, clever or no, she was sad she had to use it.
Randolph forced a laugh and a smile. “No need to apologize. It’s fine.”
“Oh,” said Soli, turning her eyes back to his, but he was already turned towards the house.
He nodded for her to follow. “Let’s get you to your bedrest, first.”
“Yeah, right after a bath.” She followed him.
“I’ll walk you there.”
“Thanks.” She exhaled loudly. She wouldn’t put it past Jae to already be waiting in the tub for her, and she loved the idea of Randolph being the one to spot Jae bare and covered in bubbles in the tub.
He didn’t talk until he brought her to the bathroom. Without her even asking, he poked his head in the door to glance inside.
“Nope, no monsters in here.” He smiled.
She gave a curt laugh. “Thank you, Randolph.”
“Mind the tub though.” He nodded towards it. “I don’t like the look it’s been giving you.”
“You noticed that, did you?” She wished they could just talk so ridiculously more often. When they did so, it made her feel so much less alone.
“Oh, yeah. That tub has a history. Everyone here knows it.” He smiled, and Soli thought it was genuine.
“Well, thank you again. I know you’re a busy man, so I appreciate the monster-in-the-bathroom check. Let me know if there is anytime you need me to check out your window at night for The Woodman.”
He closed his eyes tight, and his lips followed suit with a sigh. “Yeah. I’ll be sure to do that.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “Never should have told you that.”
“But you did.” She slipped past him into the bathroom, but she hesitated closing the door. “Would you mind?”
“I’ve never washed a lady’s hair before, sweetheart, but I could try.”
She laughed. “No, I mean,” she paused, thinking how to ask it best, “could you stay outside the door in case…”
“Ah,” he said dramatically like an inventor having an epiphany. “You mean in case…”
“Yeah,” she said, raising her brow.
“The bathtub…”
“Yeah!”
“I can.” He smiled. “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He winked. “Oh, and if you change your mind about your hair, don’t hesitate to holler.”
Chapter 44
It had been five agonizing days since Saemund had visited the woman at the apothecary. Five silent days. Five days without spotting her outside.
He went there every waking minute, waiting for her to exit. All he needed was for her to leave for a quick errand, and then he would take her out with one quick snap. She’d never suspect him, let alone an attack. He was sure he could use that surprise to make it quick.
But she never left. The crone did, frequently, but not the woman.
He saw her through the window sometimes. She still slept as she had before, but the woman no longer left her window open. She kept it locked, and, from what Saemund saw, trapped with a barely visible trip wire. He could pick a lock with the best of them, but he didn’t want to risk the alarm.
If he, himself, was trapping a window he would have used a decoy wire, and the real trap the intruder would never see. He had to entertain the possibility that the woman did the same.
He thought about breaking into the other windows, but they had strange symbols carved into the frame. Normally such superstitions of common rabble wouldn’t affect him, but the symbols he saw looked too familiar to him. He had seen similar things among his master’s belongings, and he knew his master was no common charlatan.
He decided it wasn’t worth blowing his identity, or his life, over impatience.
But his uncompleted task gnawed at him.
He had made the decision to end her. He had told Dotard and Worm his plan, and they were eagerly awaiting news of his accomplishments—no doubt their cut of her meat too. Too bad for them they wouldn’t get any. They weren’t good enough for her. He’d rather see her rot away in a sewer than be devoured by them.
That’s what he was going to do after all: shove her in the sewer and let that be the end of it. Quick and simple.
But the woman was ruining his plans. He never saw her leave.
And while the woman dragged out his mission, he was forced to continue living as the priest
, which was the worst part of all. Forced to sleep at the temple. Having to comply with the basic standards of priestly behavior to keep up his façade. Made to endure the nightly dreams. They came to him as clearly as if they were his own memories.
Maybe they were memories, and that idea was the most frightening thing that Saemund could think of.
No. He couldn’t have such memories. He was a skin thief. A monster. A doppelganger. The boogeyman.
His master told him as such, and he was made the way he was by his master: complete and perfect.
But every night he spent in that forsaken temple picked at the scab of the pseudo-memories in his mind. They made him feel like a human—if only for a few minutes every night. But he remembered how it felt upon awakening, and he couldn’t shake it.
Perhaps it was that god, Anker, which made him feel it. Perhaps it was the flesh of the priest—somehow was it his memories and thoughts? Maybe it was Saemund’s own weakness? Was it a punishment for the recently derelict, questioning monster? It was his nature to follow, and he knew, on some level, he was not following what his master wanted. He had indulged himself and his curiosities. Maybe, if he killed the woman, he would return to normal.
Dotard and Worm offered no comfort, only irritation. They would talk to him every night, to ask him if he had killed the woman. They looked at him with doubt in their eyes—like he couldn’t do it. Like he was a failure. Completely useless.
Every night they asked, and, every night, he had to tell them: “Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
If they asked him one more time, he thought, he might kill them. Perhaps his master would be angry. If so, then perhaps he could lie and say he had to. His master did not need to know about his thoughts and desires; those were for his mind alone. If his master fully knew the doubts he had, he feared what would happen to him.
Even a monster wants to live.
The mercenary wanted to meet with him, according to Dotard and Worm, but he didn’t care. What was there to meet about? He hadn’t taken care of the woman, so there was no new information to share with him. It was pointless.
The mercenary could wait—just like Worm and Dotard. They needed to be patient.
It was the end of another night of failure. The sun would be rising within an hour or so, and he was exhausted. At the thought of returning to the cursed temple for another night, he wanted to shriek and scream.
Another deteriorating night.
Another night where the idea of Saemund slowly collapsed.
Chapter 45
It had been a day since Soli pretended to catch the flu, and she was thoroughly pleased with her ruse. Etienne had made good on his offer of books, and he showed up at her door with at least twenty in his arms—seemingly unafraid of catching her illness. He had picked a selection of his favorites that he thought might interest her. Northern books of history, lore, and even a collection of children’s fairy stories complete with hand-drawn illustrations.
Food and drink were left outside of her door for her morning, noon, and night meals. All matter of delicacies that she had loved before at the dining table were now crammed onto a platter for her, and she was easily given enough to feed two. No doubt someone in the kitchen had a little love for her.
The only time she had to leave her room was for the bath, which she planned to take early in the mornings before Jae or Etienne were awake. She’d read by candlelight since the sun would not be up for at least an hour, and then she’d recline in warmth and bubbles.
It was easily the best time she had ever had in the Reinout estate, and she planned to enjoy every second of it until the Jubilee. She had seven days until then, and she planned to spend every moment of those days without the presence of the unsettling Jae Reinout.
That morning she poured perfumed oil into the hot bath and the place instantly filled with the scent of peonies, roses, and a touch of clover. She breathed deep. The humid air felt heavenly in her lungs.
She stepped into the bath, sinking into the blissful pool. Everything terrible seemed so far away when she was there. The house was quiet, given the hour, and there was no fear of someone outside the door prowling. Jae never seemed to be able to drag himself from his bed before the sun rose, and she doubted he would change that just to stalk her.
She brought with her a book that looked well-read and utterly irreplaceable. Across the front, in chiseled hard leather, were Northern runes, stating: Lineages.
She herself had never read the book, and she found herself compelled to read it immediately, not being able to stand the idea of Etienne knowing some nugget about the North that she didn’t. She had no intention of reading all of it while in the bath, but it was a start.
She patted her hands on a nearby towel until they were absolutely dry before she even dared to touch the treasured tome. She opened it, and she was welcomed with the musty scent of old, fragile paper.
The entire thing was written by hand. Unlike the books of Aveline, the North did not have block printing, one of the few drawbacks that Soli saw.
It was not in alphabetical order, but, instead, it was written as close to chronological order as the author could have guessed. It started with the founding houses—warlords who lasted for longer than a generation—and then it expanded to the new provinces.
She wondered if her house was in there, but, surely, if that was the case, she would have to read quite a bit farther to discover her own family. She was never one to jump ahead in a good book. She always believed that good things needed to be savored, so she decided to be patient. She started at page one, prefaced by small sketches of warriors meant to be the first founder’s soldiers.
She didn’t get too far before she was interrupted by a knock at the door. She jumped, and the book slipped from her hands, but she managed to catch it inches before it hit the water. “What?” she snapped considerably louder than she had meant to.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I do not mean to interrupt,” replied a muffled, feminine voice that Soli did not recognize.
She set the book to the side, atop of a dried towel, and drew herself from the bath. “One moment,” she called to the woman while she wrapped herself in a plush, purple robe that nearly dragged on the floor.
She unlocked the door, but, before she opened it, she pulled her wet hair over the left side of her face.
Outside was a kitchen maid that Soli vaguely remembered seeing before: a short, oddly-shaped, plump woman a few years older than herself. “Sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to let you know that your breakfast will be late.”
“That’s alright,” Soli replied with a smile.
The maid curtsied and turned to leave.
“Just one thing, miss,” said Soli. “Why?”
“We’re running with less staff today. It’s Marguerite, ma’am. She’s gravely ill. Can’t stand, so she can’t help.”
Chapter 46
Vitoria had trained as well as she could for what she considered her last job, but she continued to practice what Odette had taught her long after feeling that she had mastered it. The voice within her was silenced in her moments of concentration, but, as she became more competent, she turned bored, and her mind wandered.
When her mind wandered, it let the voice in.
But she couldn’t seem to help her vagrant thoughts. It was Ulrich on her mind. What was he going to say about Conyers? He hadn’t returned since his visit nor did he send any word.
It wasn’t like him.
She tried to focus on the plan. Gain entry with Mikis, Odette, and their people. Blend in. Mikis and his company were to leave the target alone, and, instead, they would focus on occupying others—keeping them from her quarry. Meet with the target alone. Execute with garrote to silence screams. Stash body. Leave without anyone knowing otherwise.
But the things that Odette told her about her target made her wonder if it would be that simple. He had a perilous temper. After Odette showed Vitoria the bruises she still had from her night of reconnaissance with hi
m, she wondered if she would be able to even get him alone and vulnerable. Odette also said he was strong, and Vitoria couldn’t afford to get into a brawl with the man. If he got ahold of her… she did not finish the thought.
Then she’d die without knowing the truth.
The Ulrich she knew was desperate for approvable yet tenacious to a fault. He wouldn’t have let their conversation linger. He would’ve stopped to check in on her by then, she figured.
The silence was maddening, and she was suddenly struck with the idea that he might be in danger. Aimee thought he might have been spying on her for Conyers. Suddenly, he wanted to talk about a visit from Conyers, but then nothing but silence?
She couldn’t stand the thought of being denied the truth again.
Aimee wouldn’t like the distraction, but Vitoria had to at least know Ulrich was still alive.
Chapter 47
Seven days. Seven days since he last had contact with his prey. Seven days ago, she should have been dead by his hand. All it would have taken was his fingers around her throat, a quick clench, and he would have been free. Instead he had no one to blame but himself.
He should have killed her sooner.
He had the chance countless times.
He tromped back to the temple, silently begging for anyone on the street to impede him—but no one did. He was alone the entire way.
The last time he slept, he was back at the land of dust, but, that time, there was no wailing. Instead he was digging a much bigger hole.
Dotard was waiting for him at the base of the steps to the temple.
Saemund’s glance was Dotard’s only acknowledgement.
“Is it—?” began to ask Dotard.
“No,” snarled Saemund. “Not yet.”
Dotard nodded as Saemund walked straight past him, up the steps.
He followed after, staying a few feet away for his own safety. “But—”